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When the World Ceased
When The World Ceased Presented by Nanubot, RedFlamingDrago, and SilverSong723 Partial language and violence. Discretion advised for younger viewers. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ . There were stories. Of men against the shadows, standing back and guarding the world from what lurked within such shadows. Their main reason that drives them into the dark? The world. A brave few can keep the shadows and their nightmares back. A nightlight in the dark to secure. To contain. To protect. There were others. Of men of chaos, working with the shadows to blind and to steal. Of men under masks, who were the shadows, to destroy and to conquer. There were more. All of different intent, all of different ideals. But only one stood against the shadows to guard the world from what lurked within such shadows. Many knew not their name. The few who did, knew them as the Foundation. And the world owed their lives. And men of chaos and of masks were willing to take what was due. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ One Crimson . Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. The thought of the quote found Agent Crimson as he made his way to the infirmary. A Class D riot broke out during testing, and Crimson was sent to intervene. His white coat was tainted with dark red. In crimson. ''When the Foundation found him, he had no name. Now he did, and he knew the Foundation was home. Crimson had never thought of the people he's killed. Never thought he would, either. Death seemed to be nothing but an obstacle. He found himself within the infirmary, a nurse standing by his side on the bed and tending to his wounds, whispering the words, "Like nothing ever happened." That was the Foundation in a nutshell, when they find such monsters and contain them. ''Like nothing ever happened. . __ A sharp ring, then red. Crimson lowered the gun and watched as the boy in orange, at least twenty years old, slumped to his knees, and fell over. A man with large round glasses and white hair stood in the back, holding a clipboard over his chest in fear. Another Disposable covered his gaping mouth in his hands and turned to the side, away from the corpse. Crimson nudged the boy with his foot. Suddenly, the downed boy's hand sprung up and put his bloody hands over Crimson's pale face. Crimson stood still, staring at the wall behind the D as if nothing was wrong. The boy began to draw his finger across Crimson's chest plate., then allow his hand to fall back to the floor. The Class-D gasped for breath, and found it, only to say, "Thank...you..." And that was all. The D's eyes went blank and stared into nothing, and his chest's bobbing, signifying breath, would stop. Dead. "God." The scientist cowering in the corner stared at Crimson's chest. Crimson stared down at his chest and could somehow make up the words, 'death' written in blood. The scientist lowered his clipboard and began to write on it. Crimson stared up from his chest and stared at the other D. "I'll take it back." Crimson said to the scientist, Vens. Vens nodded, though busy writing. Crimson gestured for the exit from the containment cell, and was on his way. __ . Crimson left the infirmary, and wandered the Site aimlessly, finally resting at the cafeteria for a drink. He was thankful that he could get a moment of calm. That's something you don't get often in his line of work. In the Foundation. Crimson glanced over at Dr. Vens on the other side of the cafeteria. Vens took his head up from his newspaper and grinned at Crimson. "Hell of a day, huh?" Vens remarked. Crimson placed down his cup of coffee and nodded, barely making eye contact. "Something wrong, Crimson?" Vens asked. Crimson looked Vens in the eye. "Oh, nothing." He said. "Yes, I know my Disposables became a bit 'rowdy' during my test, I apologize for anything I had done to provoke them to physical violence and...well, let's say it didn't end well for you and me. Nothing a bullet cannot fix, am I correct, Agent Crimson?" Vens chuckled. "I wish that were the case." Crimson muttered. "What was that?" Vens asked, unable to hear what Crimson said. "Oh, nothing." Crimson repeated. "Same here, brother." A tall man with a devilish grin slid next to Crimson, taking a bite from a pizza slice. "Rogue." Crimson said. "Only people like you can find your way into others' business." "And you have something to hide?" Rogue sneered. Rogue was the type of person you'd find in an alley with a sack of candy, inviting children to enter his van. Someone you'd stay away from, or drop your grocery bag and pick up the phone. Crimson sighed, and drank from his coffee. Vens tossed his paper plate into a trash bin and took his last sip of coffee before getting his stuff gathered and nodding his goodbyes, and left the cafeteria. ___ Rogue smacked his glove onto the table in uncontrollable bursts of laughter. Crimson sat and watched as the entire table shook in laughter. Multiple personnel had came to sit down for lunch. "You want to know what I call a Jihad without a gun?" Rogue said, and then said a name Crimson did not recognize, though caused multiple personnel to laugh uncontrollably. Three personnel stood to leave, grumbling to themselves, and more followed after, returning to their duties. Rogue sighed after everyone had left. "Some days, there is a calm in the storm." Rogue sneered. Crimson looked up. "But we cannot expect to remain the eye for long." Rogue jabbed a finger at Crimson, and stood and left. Nobody new particularly who Rogue was, what his clearance was, what his job was. Everyone knew he was the type to stay away from. He had a bit of a history. Rogue climbed the stairs up to the bridge hanging over the cafeteria, his green robes slid over his lab coat sagging at his feet. Crimson sighed, and threw his lunch away. He checked his watch. 1:34. That's when he knew he became Death. Destroyer of worlds. His radio buzzed to life. "We....we caught something on our radar.... It...doesn't lo''ok friendly." ''I am become Death. . . Destroyer of worlds. . ______________________________________________________________________________________________ Two Phil and Mags At long last, break hour had arrived. Two exhausted security officers moved briskly into the armory. One of them was a male. His pale face displayed long black hair, a short nose, and dull green eyes. He gazed onto his companion. They were an Asian female. Despite this change in race the resemblance between the two was remarkable. The male let out a sigh of exhaustion. The female responded by laughing. "Phil, come on. How can something like that wear you out?" "Are you kidding? We just killed a horde of fucking hostile Class-D. In these uniforms, nonetheless!" "Yeah, well you did do a lot of running so that might explain it." Phil had no comeback for that. Instead he approached a comfortable looking bench. "Hey Magnolia?" Phil asked. "It's Mags, and what?" "How long has it been since we transferred here?" "One year, why?" "No reason, it's just weird. Time really flies, huh?" There was a long silence until a radio in Phil's rucksack sprung to life. "Hey, Phil, are you with Mags?" He reached over to it and picked it up. "Yeah, what's going on?" "Your break's ending early. Captain Phed needs you two back down at the Class-D cells. No need to bring weapons, just, he wants you to clean up the eighteen corpses you left on the floor." Mags let out a massive sigh. "But this is our break, we need it." Phil rolled his eyes. "Knew it, you're exhausted too." The two began bickering with the radio still on. Cole Smith, the person on the line, had seen this again and again having worked with the two for the last year. "Just be down here within twenty minutes. Don't expect Phed to go easy on you two every time." The radio let out a small beep. That was it's way of letting the receiver know the speaker had turned their end off. Phil shifted his gaze over to Mags and propped himself up off of the bench. Letting out an exaggerated sigh he said, "Let's go." __ Phil and Mags approached the cell block in a slow pace, being in no hurry to get off their break. Casually sliding a Level-3 card into the censor, the door slid open and Phil and Mags advanced. A foul stench of blood pushed into their noses. Any normal person would have gagged, though not them. Not anyone in that facility. They were all used to it by now. Everyone brushed it off, as if nothing ever happened. Phil took the lead and approached Smith and Phed who gazed down at them with a disenchanted look on their faces. Smith simply nodded to them. "Take the bodies down to the maintenance sector. Janitorial staff will know what to do with them." Mumbled Captain Phed. Cole Smith was a suck-up to Captain Phed. He followed him everywhere helping with anything he could. Phil hated him. He hated everything about Smith including his appearance. He was tall and thin with a mop of greasy black hair on his head. Blackheads surrounded his small nose. His lips were a dry chapped color. As for Captain Phed, he was a much older man. Phil presumed he wouldn't even realize the mess him and Mags had left if Smith hadn't reported it first. Phed too had a thick mop of hair, but it was different. His was gray and well maintained. It was combed straight back off of his head revealing an elderly, sunken in, face. Black spots sat contently under his eyes. "Isn't it the Janitorial Staff's job to clean these up, not ours?" Mags blurted out the words. Smith sneered, "Disobedience? I'd follow Captain's orders. He has authority over you." Mags fired back a nasty look but didn't dare to say anything because she knew he was right. They began hauling the Class-D corpses into a cart. From there, they could push them over to the maintenance sector. "You nearly die fighting at your job and this is how you're treated..." Mags glanced at Smith with the same look as he was walking out of the room. The way he appraised them was nothing more than a scam to make Phed appreciate him more. Phil grumbled as he hauled a Class-D corpse over his shoulder. "What was the point of doing our jobs if we just get punished for doing them?" Mags shrugs it off. "We're talking about Cole here. He's a brat and we're both aware of that." Something about that made Phil laugh. "He's a vile brat and we're both aware of that," he repeated, "You're a poet and you don't know it." "I thought you were mad." "I am mad." "Then why are you rhyming shit?" finished Mags. Phil let out a exasperated sigh. They Phil gently put the corpse down into the cart. He advanced towards another dead one on the floor. It's face had been rearranged by a fast moving bullet. Gore covered the cracked skull. As he advanced towards it he noticed something move. Without giving it much thought he concluded it was Mags. Mags threw a female Class-D's corpse into the cart. Unlike Phil who wanted to respect the fallen humans, Mags just wanted to finish up her work. She swiftly approached another body. It was that of a male. He was small and scrawny. A patch of brown fuzz covered his head and his chin. She reached towards him. There was a loud pop as he returned the favor, grabbing her wrist and twisting it. He had been playing dead. Stunned, Mags stumbled back. The Class-D wailed his arm at her forehead with all his might. Mags ducked down leaving him to stumble forward. Phil glanced upwards at the commotion and ran towards the pair. The Class-D had pinned Mags to the wall. She promptly drew her knee upwards between the male's legs. He shrieked as she draw her fist back and punched him in the nose. He fell backwards onto Phil who wrapped his arms around his throat and expeditiously broke his neck. The limp Class-D fell to the floor. Mags and Phil met gazes for a moment, then continued with their work. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ Three Scar' "Agent Scar, please report to Storage Area-457 for a minor breach." Scar held a radio on his hand and complied, the elevator moving downwards. He glanced over to Deacon who was leaning against a bar in the back of the elevator. The elevator stopped to a halt, but the doors remained shut. Scar sighed and pressed the button to manually open, it was jammed. "It was bound to happen with you in here." sneered Deacon, Deacon was rarely seen as the comedian of the crew, Rogue's the one who you're looking for if you're up for a good laugh in the canteen, but Deacon knew how to grind out good jokes, except now wasn't the time. "Don't bring my weight into this, Deacon." "If you put your weight into this, it'll collapse!" Deacon burst out laughing before being seized by the neck. "Let go of me, Commie!" Scar and Deacon were two opposite people, one being Russian the other being American. Deacon began to try to break himself free from the iron grip of the Russian, Scar. "Alright, I didn't mean fat, I meant big bon-" Scar sent a large fist into Deacon's face. Deacon ducked and grabbed the Russian's arm. Before Scar could react, Deacon twisted his arm. The Russian kicked Deacon's gut with his knee, sending Deacon stumbling back into the elevator. Scar began to wobble his hand to get rid of the pain. "You are weak little baby." Scar said as Deacon looked up. "Look, uh, truce?" Deacon raised his hands. "Russia does not make truce." Scar scolded "Vut," Scar grunted. "I am not Russia." Scar said flatly to Deacon's relief. "Truce." Scar held out his hand for Deacon to shake. Deacon smiled. "You ain't that bad after all, pal." Deacon said, taking Scar's hand. Scar lifted his arm, bring Deacon up from his feet and held him midair, and slammed him to the ground, headfirst. The elevator shook violently and the doors slid open. Ding. Scar smiled. "Truce." The two men walked out the elevator, Like nothing ever happened. __ Scar and Deacon stepped foot in the cold floor of Storage Area-457. "It's fucking freezing in here." whinned Deacon, shivering in the tunnels. Scar gave out a hearty laugh and mocked, "You silly Americans do not understand the true feeling of cold." "Easy for you to say, you're from the Soviet Union!" Halfway through the sector, Scar's radio hummed to life. "Scar, what's the hold up?" Scar glared back at Deacon as he picked up the transceiver. "We come across, 'technical difficulties'." muttered Scar. "We need both of you here, '''now." snapped the voice. "Be sure to- by the-" The voice had been inaudible, overcome by static. The crackling of fire could be overheard from the other end. "Hold it back! - someone turn on the fucking sprinkler sys-" followed by screams of death. "Agent? Agent, do you read?" Silence. Scar grew more frustrated and fiddled with the radio controls. He swore under his breath and gave out a raging yell then hurled the radio at the wall. The device shattered into pieces, Scar took a deep breath and continued. "More rubble, less trouble." The two men stumbled upon the remains of a gate. The sides pried open by a great force, Scar inspected the damages. He pressed his hand on the surface of the metal and felt an unbearable pain in his palm. "Shit!" shouted Scar, retracting his finger and growled, "It was here." Inside the gate, lead the containment of SCP-457. Bodies had been lying on the floor, skin burnt. "Christ" whispered Deacon kicking over the corpse, proceeding to climb up the ladder. A corpse laid over the control panel, blood tainted on his uniform. Deacon shoved the body over, a bullet wound was seen on him. "Scar? I don't think uh, 457 was the only one that killed them." __ Category:Serious